


Someone Loves You More Than You Know

by electricblueninja



Series: The Five Love Languages [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, M/M, They're getting there, impending smut, probably, they still had talking to do, yeah sorry I know I said there was smut coming but they didn't want to do it just yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:02:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27652463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricblueninja/pseuds/electricblueninja
Summary: Sometimes, you have to show AND tell.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: The Five Love Languages [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1988281
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	Someone Loves You More Than You Know

Dean kisses me back before he realises that he's doing it. When the reality does sink in, adrenaline emanates from him like a shockwave. He pushes me away and staggers backwards, hands outstretched, palms raised and held out towards me. It's part warning and part supplication, but it's all just...fear. Fear, when I'd expected anger. Not just 'what the hell' anger, either--more like broken-nose anger. And although I do not like the way that his eyes are suddenly filled with some heartrending combination of suffering and self-loathing, I am somewhat relieved that he is not resorting to his customary violence.

Humans have the concept of 'the five stages of grief'. It is usually used when they talk about death, especially the loss of their own life, or that of a loved one. But it works as a general description of how they respond to something they fear, as well. Supposedly, in order of occurrence, the stages are: anger, denial, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. From Dean, I had expected anger or denial. Instead, his reaction seems much closer to depression. 

By that logic, if the theory and the sequence of the five stages is correct, then...perhaps he is closer to acceptance than I could have ever dared to hope.

I do not pursue him as he retreats from me. I mirror his gesture, instead: holding up my own hands in an effort to appear calm and reassuring. It works on large, frightened animals, so with any luck, it may also work on this large, frightened human.

He raises a shaking hand to his lips. His green eyes are wide with panic; his pupils dilate; cheeks flushed. When I kissed him, he'd dropped the beer he'd been holding. It has fallen onto the weathered planks, a wide arc of foamy liquid spilling across the timber. Consequently, the fresh lakeside air is flavoured by the pungent smell of fermented grain, and beer froth fizzes into nothingness at our feet. But Dean's eyes are locked firmly on mine as he struggles to comprehend what has transpired between us.

"Did you--did you just--"

He pulls his hand away from his mouth and draws himself up to full height. Perhaps the fight response is kicking in. 

"Cas, if...if this is a joke, it's not funny," he says, his eyebrows knotting together as he glowers.

"I rarely make jokes, Dean."

Every instinct I have wants me to apologise; to say that it was nothing. But I'm not sorry, and it isn't nothing. And now that I understand why he left the bunker so suddenly, I am not going to allow him to misunderstand again. He needs to know. 

"Then what the hell, Cas?"

I sigh. I would like to be able to be ready for how he will respond, but he is too unpredictable. I can't even imagine what he will do. I just know that anything is better than this uncertainty. It is too much, and has gone on for too long. It is too tiring to just go on trying to veil how I feel for him, and the longer I leave it, the less likely it becomes that I will ever tell him. 

If Sam is to be believed, I have actually done an exceptionally poor job of concealing my feelings. Sam thinks that the problem lies with Dean: that he suffers from 'perception bias', which means that he only notices things that confirm what he already believes. Which, in turn, led Sam to suggest that, for my own sake, the best course of action would be to just tell the truth, in as simple and direct a way as possible.

I breathe in again, deeply. I do not feel ready, but, as Sam said, one never _feels_ ready.

"I love you, Dean."

Disbelief crosses his features, followed quickly by deflective humour. "Okay, you've been on another bender, huh? Only this time, you got into the good stuff, right? A bit of...you know?" He mimes holding a spliff to his lips, his face a practiced mask of false amusement.

"No, Dean." 

I take a step forward, studying his body language for any indication that I should not approach. He seems uneasy as I move towards him, but not aggressive or resistant. 

"I have not been smoking anything."

He looks confused. "But...but you just said that you...that you..."

He is struggling to finish the sentence, so I do it for him.

"That I love you. Yes."

"You...love me."

"Yes. I love you."

" _You_ love _me_."

"Yes."

"Since...since when?"

I may not have known what to expect, but even so, this question takes me off-guard. And, embarrassingly, I do not know the answer. My love for Dean has been gradual. It has unfurled softly since I met him, and learned that he is both brave and fearful; as clever as he is foolish; that he is as kind and gentle as he is rough and ready. That he cares deeply for the world and the people in it. That he is loyal to a fault. And that he has the conviction to do what he believes is right, even when facing impossible odds.

"I...I don't...I don't know _when_ ," I admit. "I only know why."

"Did God drop you on your head when you were a baby or something? Cas, you can't be...I...you can't be serious."

I take another three careful steps forward. We're close again now. Close enough that I could reach out and touch him, though I don't dare. This moment is still too precarious. But I do not look away from him. Instead, he is the one to break eye contact; to look at the ground, his chest rising and falling as his breath quickens.

"This is why you asked me about..." 

I watch him grapple with the word, but he can't quite manage it. 

"...It," he says, and then, "You know, uh, the...friendship thing."

I know him. I feel what he's feeling, and I hear what he's thinking. He didn't believe he deserved to be saved, and he doesn't believe he deserves to be loved.

"I love you freely," I say, quietly. "I love you, and there are no conditions on that love. And I do not expect anything from you, either. If you--"

"Don't you dare," he interrupts, his voice tight and angry as his eyes snap back to mine. "Don't you dare keep just...just _giving_ , Cas. You can't...you can't _kill Death_ because we 'matter too much' to you, and then just...Jesus, Cas. You matter to me, too, okay? A lot. I--"

He falls silent, his lower lip trembling and his eyes just a little too bright for the afternoon sun's rays to be responsible.

He can't say it. Not in the same words as I did. What he does say is: "Dammit, Cas, you have to _want_ something, okay? What do you want?"

He doesn't understand that all of the things he is saying and doing--they _are_ what I want. He's giving me Dean-speak versions of 'I care for you' and 'I want the best for you', and I feel...I feel overjoyed. I have always tried to show him that I care, but I never had the sense to _tell_ him. And now I have, and he has heard me, and now he cannot deny it.

He's still looking at me, desperately, searchingly. "Come _on_ , Cas. Tell me--what do you _want_?"

Dean Winchester: a man who does not know how to be wanted just because of who he is. He needs to hear it. He needs to know.

"I want _you_ , Dean."

As I speak, something changes in his gaze. There is a heat to it that was not there before. Such simple words of affirmation, and yet they transform him.

Still keeping my hands to myself, I add, "And, with your permission, I would like very much to kiss you again."

He bites his lip, and shakes his head. When he replies, he looks almost... _shy_. Dean Winchester the libertine is not, and never has been, Dean Winchester the beloved. In his shyness I see vestiges of what he must have been like, before he began to believe so deeply that he was unloved and unloveable.

"Cas, I--" He closes his eyes, licks his lips, clears his throat, and tries again. "I...I dropped my beer. We should...we should go inside."


End file.
